


Blood and Snow

by Temporalis (Elvaron)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4833518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvaron/pseuds/Temporalis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A split second is all it takes to turn the tide in combat. When Dorian falls in battle, Trevelyan expends everything in his arsenal to draw fire away from him. The Inquisitor is badly injured, Dorian is adamantly not panicking, and there's blood everywhere. And when the Inquisitor falls off a cliff, that's only the <i>start</i> of their problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13696.html?thread=53026176#t53026176) prompt on the Dragon Age Kink Meme, where the OP wanted an injured Inquisitor and companions to the rescue. 
> 
> Title is... a pun on Blood and Sand. Because ... well. I have a terrible sense of humour.
> 
> Eventual Dorian/Trevelyan. 
> 
> Warnings for explicit violence.

_Note to self,_ Trevelyan thinks, _Snow and Heralds of Andraste definitely do not mix._

It's been less than two months since the flight from Haven, and once again, he's lost, alone, and freezing to death in the thrice blasted, _wretched_ snow. Next time, he's taking the team and going somewhere nice and warm and _sunny_. 

He takes a laboured step, then two, and glances down at the trail of blood that he's splattering across the otherwise pristine white.

Problem is, there might not be a next time.

 

But let's back up a bit.

\--

Varric's the one who stumbles across the passage through the mountains, a dark, winding thing full of deep mushrooms, which cuts through the sheer cliffs of Emprise du Lion, opening out onto the sun splashed, red lyrium dotted heights. This high up, the air is sharp and fresh but thin, and the malevolent humming that he's grown to associate with red lyrium is an almost painful, annoying buzz in the back of his mind. But even that is not enough to detract from the splendour of the view - all of Emprise du Lion sweeping out majestically below, the ancient Tevinter highway stretching its shadow over the village of Sahrnia below, snow-dusted ruins scattered jewels across the landscape. Dorian huffs out an awed breath that turns to steam on the wind, and even Cassandra, normally so stoic in the line of duty, pauses to stare, as wonder lights her eyes.

"Let's make camp," Trevelyan suggests. The sun is still fairly high in the sky, but he is conscious that it sets early in the mountains, and they've already trekked for hours, climbing and scrambling around in the thin mountain air. No one's saying it, but he's fairly certain that they're all exhausted. 

They scout out a suitable location, far away from the red lyrium deposits, and start pitching the tents. It's the most peaceful trek he's enjoyed in a long time, which of course it's too good to last. 

Varric's the first to call out the alarm, as an intruder steps onto one of the perimeter traps that he's set up, triggering a blast. Trevelyan glances up, immediately yanking his staff from its harness, eyes darting around as he tries to assess the situation. "Back!" he yells, seeing the glint of light on silver sun-shields, hears the menacing clank of heavy armour that takes him right back to the Circle in Ostwick. Their location makes for a great vantage spot, he realises, but it's also far too exposed, open to attack from all sides. They'll be surrounded in an instant. "Back to the passageway!" 

His order comes too late. A second later, red templars are swarming them. Arrows come flying and he ducks instinctively. A shadow darts over him as Cassandra dashes to his side, raising her shield to ward off the attack, buying him the second he needs to drop a barrier over both of them. Magical shields in place, he shifts his grip on his staff and summons fire, blasting the templar archer right off the edge of the mountain. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Varric plant a crossbow bolt straight through a templar's throat, before ducking and rolling away. Cassandra is a steady presence at his back, yelling taunts at the templars. Check, and check … but where is Dorian?

For a moment, dread floods him, ice to veins and a gaping vortex to his stomach. He can't see him anywhere, and his mind, unbidden, conjures up images of the Tevinter mage run through by a templar's sword --

\-- lightning crackles from a cloudless sky, slamming down across the field, and with a triumphant "Ha!", Dorian hops up onto an outcrop of rock, sparks still crackling from the tip of his staff. The relief that sweeps through Trevelyan is like the waves breaking over the Storm Coast.

"Dorian," he calls out, dryly sardonic, because he's terrified that anything else will betray the way something moves in his chest when he sees the other, the whispers of something that feels terrifying like the start of a flame that he cannot control. "Late to the party, are we?"

He can hear Dorian's sniff even all the way across the battlefield. "Fashionably late, you mean. But it seems to me that _you_ haven't even gotten started."

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Cassandra rolling her eyes. "We are in the middle of a battle, Inquisitor," she rebukes him. He smiles; they've faced down death often enough that this is almost routine, and though the enemy has superior numbers and their position isn't the best, he's confident that they'll be able to fight their way out of it.

He reaches for the power of the Fade, sparing a moment to drop a barrier over Varric before channeling the energy into a blade of pure magic. A templar lunges at him, silver flashing on steel as it glances off his barrier, even as he brings his own blade crashing into the attacker's side. Blood sprays across the snow as the air fills with screams. He sketches a glyph then yells cheerfully at Cassandra to duck, before lobbing a fireball over her head at the templar she's engaging. In the distance, he can hear Dorian firing off spell after spell, and a well-timed explosive bolt tells him that Varric is holding his own.

Templar after templar falls. Adrenaline singing through his veins, Trevelyan sweeps into the fray, swinging left and right with his spirit blade. Cassandra is off to his right, cutting her way through, with Dorian and Varric raining spells and bolts down on their enemies from the backline, and as Trevelyan strikes down the templar knight who seems to be commanding this unit, victory feels like it's well within reach.

Abruptly, a shadow falls across the battlefield. There's a moment where everything feels too still, like the calm before the storm, or a moment of silent dread before the axe falls.

"Andraste's sweet ass," Varric breathes.

The thing that looms overhead seems, on first brush, like some giant, studded with red lyrium crystals, distorted and grotesque. Then it opens its mouth and _screams_ , a primordial sound of sheer hate and rage and anguish. It tears through the very soul, and Trevelyan very nearly drops his staff as he staggers back a step. 

"Unleash the behemoth!" a templar cries, and the creature lunges forward with surprising agility, while the remaining templars redouble their attack. Trevelyan throws up a barrier barely in the nick of time to avoid being run through, and that's when he sees the behemoth close in on Dorian.

The warning leaves his lips a moment too late, and he watches, almost in slow motion, as the behemoth's fist catches Dorian right in the chest, sending him flying through the air like a ragdoll, red lyrium shards snapping off at the impact and scattering in a shower that looks like blood. 

Dorian slams into the ground, hard, and stops moving.

"Get to him!" Trevelyan yells at Cassandra. The templar knights have all closed in around them, and Varric is pinned down, trapped behind the behemoth and too far away to reach Dorian. 

"But the templars--!" Cassandra yells back. 

"You're closer to him, I'll hold the templars back. Now _go!_ " 

It isn't often that he resorts to direct orders. Cassandra has more battlefield experience and he values her counsel, but he knows in this case that he is the templars' target, and she stands a better chance of getting Dorian to safety than he does. She stares at him for a moment, and he can practically see the indecision warring in her eyes - the need to protect him, as against his direct order to leave; it's an impossible choice. Good thing he's not asking her to make it.

Without waiting for her response, he raises his sword, the mark crackling an angry green around it, radiating challenge and defiance, then charges the nearest rank of templars. Cassandra shoots him a glare that could melt the snow clean off the mountain-top, but latches onto the distraction he's caused and breaks away from the fray. Trevelyan spots the attacking templars trying to follow, and with a snarl, he rains fire on their heads. 

The behemoth screams again and rushes at him, and the world dissolves into a frenzy. He calls on ice and the powers of the storm, intent on bringing down this monstrosity. If Dorian is dead - _and no, Dorian can't be dead he can't_ \- the least that Trevelyan can do is to make sure that this creature pays. Spell after spell snaps from his staff as he hurls everything that he has at the monster. Freezing it with a blast of ice, he reaches deep into his reserves of mana and summons fire. The spell slams into the beast, shattering the ice and consuming it in a blaze. The creature screams as it falls, lashing out blindly in its death throes. Its jagged arm catches Trevelyan across the chest, crashing harmlessly into his barrier, and Trevelyan raises his blade, ready to end this--

\--when his barrier fails. Red lyrium shards scour right through his light armour, plunging into flesh, and there's fire pouring through his veins, and he can't think can't move _can't breathe_ for the agony of it. He staggers backwards even as the behemoth falls still, clutching at wounds that feel like they should be bleeding molten lava instead of blood. He glances down, and nausea twists his gut as he sees three gashes right across his upper torso, the white of his breastbone peeking through the edges of the deepest one. Someone's yelling his name, but he can't hear it above the ringing in his ears. He blinks, and he sees Cassandra starting to her feet, making to run towards him. Blinks again, and he sees a templar knight standing right before him, sword raised in a killing blow. 

He's clean out of mana. His mouth tastes like sulphur and ash, exhaustion and agony clawing at his skin, threatening to drag him down into a deep dark that he knows he won't awake from. Somewhere, somehow, he raises the strength to bring his staff up to parry the blow. Steel hits into wood and slices right through, and the templar raises an armour clad knee and slams it into his chest.

He feels more than hears the sickening crunch of breaking ribs even as he falls backwards. It seems like it should be impossible for the pain to increase, but it somehow does, and he would scream except that he has no air. He's on his back in the snow, his staff nothing more than splintered wood beside him, and he wonders, vaguely, if this is how it's going to end.

The templar seizes his left arm by the wrist, dragging it up, and he wants to laugh hysterically - they aren't even going to kill him, it seems, they're just going to _chop his hand off_ and probably leave him to bleed to death. The templar adjusts his grip on his sword, and that hysteria crystallises sharply in an instant, lancing through the pain, providing one, vivid moment of absolute clarity. 

No, he thinks. No, he's not going to die here. Not like this. 

"Did you really think I needed a staff to be dangerous?" he hisses, the echo of words that he had spoken to Cassandra back at Haven, in what feels like another lifetime ago. So saying, he hooks a leg around the templar's, kicks other's feet out from under him, and flips him over sharply, sending him crashing down to the ground… and over the edge of the cliff face.

For a single flicker in time, he thinks he's done it. It's over, the fight is done. He'll grab a potion from their supplies and check on Dorian, and they'll be on their way. 

That sense of relief is shattered as the templar grabs his ankle and drags him down into the abyss along with him.

And the Inquisitor falls.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor (non-substantive) refinements from the version posted on LJ. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for the lovely comments and all the encouragement!

Part 2

He hits every single rock on the way down.

It's almost a blessing that he can't think after he smacks his head on the first one; everything devolves into a blur, and his nerves barely even have the chance to catch up. What's left of coherent thought is focused into scrabbling for purchase against the unyielding cliff face. His fingers hook into a crevice, and he thinks, for one shining moment, that he's managed to arrest his fall, before his tenuous grip slips and gravity resumes its work. He flails, and his left arm smacks into an overhang with a noise that sounds disturbingly like a crunch, and then he's just falling, sliding, falling.

He waits for his life to flash before his eyes, but all that floats up is a vision of Corypheus' scarred mug. Brilliant. Just what he'd like to see before he dies.

The red glow of Corypheus' eyes chases him into the dark. 

*

Something vaguely coldish brushes his nose, and with an effort, Trevelyan peels his eyes open. He'd always thought that the saying about eyelids feeling like lead was an exaggeration along the vein of one of Varric's novels, but in that moment, he retracts that analysis. His eyelids have definitely been transmogrified into lead. Strange, he never knew that there was a school of magic that could do that. 

He's lying on his back in thick snow. Somehow, miraculously, he's also alive. 

He tries to sit up, makes it almost five inches off the ground before he's thumping back down, his head and his chest screaming in agony. Bad idea. Very bad idea. He'd clean forgotten about the chest injury, and when he glances down, he has to suppress a groan - his clothes and armour are soaked with blood, the wound torn even wider open thanks to the little tumble he took off the mountainside. He fumbles at his belt for his spare potions, his blood running cold as his fingers brush against empty pouches, finding nothing but shattered glass. 

For a long moment, Trevelyan does nothing except lie there, staring blankly into the distance, trying not to panic. It's when a snowflake drifts out of the sky to brush across his cheek that he realises that he can't lie here forever, tempting though it is. His mind knows, logically, that the fastest way to nowhere is to continue lying here, but precious minutes are spent trying to overrule the veto that the rest of his body has. 

When he finally summons the energy to sit up, he does so with distinctly more caution this time. Even so, his head still spins crazily, his ribs scream bloody murder, and he's barely manage to prop himself up when nausea stabs him in the gut like a rogue striking from the shadows. He heaves, stomach roiling, but nothing comes up except the sour burn of acid. _That_ in turn sets off a coughing fit that turns world white and grey and red for a long, long moment. When he can see again, he finds blood splattered across his glove, bright red and bubbly. 

Oh.

Memories of various tomes from the Ostwick Circle's library flash tantalisingly through his mind's eye. Books on herbs and healing that he'd flipped through with cursory interest, then tossed aside in favour of other schools of magic - oh, how he regrets not reading them now. Still, the talent for healing magic is rare and getting rarer, and oh, he _really_ needs to move, because the sun is setting - correction, _has_ set, and every second lost sitting here might be the difference between life and death.

He's trying very hard not to think of the possibility that he might already be a dead man walking. Hope is such a terrible thing, but it's also incredibly addictive. 

Somehow, he finds the strength to drag himself to his feet. His right ankle protests the movement but still obligingly bears his weight; the flare of pain from his left arm is not so promising. His left hand is tingling and going slightly numb, and for once, it's not because of the Mark. Steeling himself, he probes gently at his forearm, hissing when he feels the break. "At least it's clean," he mutters, grasping at the flicker of the silver lining - that and the fact that the broken bones haven't sliced through skin means that it's one less injury that he's bleeding out from. Unfortunately, that's just about the only thing that's going right - and even that is a rather generous interpretation of the word 'right'. 

The chest wound is the worst. He tends to that first, tearing off strips from the bottom of his shirt to fashion bandages - for what limited good they'll do. He's lost fingernails on his left hand - he really needs to reconsider his stance on fingerless gloves - and he takes a moment to wrap those. The rest of the injuries - the long gash slicing his cheek open from chin to cheekbone, the cuts on his hands, the scratches and bruises all over his arms and legs, he ignores. The cold and exposure - not to mention all the other injuries, and oh, any stray red templars - will finish him off before those do. 

...His back is also a blaze of fire. Nothing he can do about that, when he can't even see it. 

He clenches the fingers of his left hand, curling them over the dull flashing of the Mark. Then he looks up at the snow covered mountain pass stretching out before him, to where the path vanishes off into the distance, swallows hard, and starts trekking.

*

He stumbles across the body of the templar - or a templar, anyway - about half an hour later. He searches the corpse for anything that might be remotely useful, such as oh, a _healing potion_ , but in the end all he ends up taking is the sword and the man's gloves.

*

Two hours later, he drops the sword, because it's getting far too heavy. 

This is worse than the escape from Haven. The lead has spread from his eyelids to his feet, and he's shivering so badly that he nearly bites his tongue from it. In fact, he might have, except that he can't really tell, because all he's been able to taste for the past hour is blood. 

And it hurts. Sweet Andraste, it _hurts_. He would have thought that the cold would have sent everything numb by now, but every step that he takes feels like it's tearing him open again. It's good though, because pain means he's still alive, pain means that he can still focus. He just wishes that the end was in sight.

As he slumps against the wall of the cliff, seized by another coughing fit that leaves bright red flecks against the snow, he wonders if the others are looking for him. He wonders if they survived, if Dorian …

His ribs send up a stab of pure, raw _fire_ , protesting the constant coughing, and his knees buckle out from under him. He falls to the snow, trying to suppress the coughing, but that just makes him feel like he's drowning, liquid bubbling up from his lungs in an endless tide. What was that about not binding broken ribs because it probably does more harm than good? But they never said what to do when you have broken ribs _and_ a chest wound that won't stop bleeding. He's going to re-write those books when he gets back. He refuses to think that it's sliding steadily closer to an 'if he gets back' at this point.

Movement in the distance catches his eye, and he lifts his sagging head, blinking and half convinced that he'd imagined it. It's hard to tell now that the sun is long gone, and the moonlight on snow is broken up by dark pools of shadow. The wind is gusting steadily through the pass now, so cold that the sharp gusts are slicing through his ruined armour like a knife, and that movement _could_ just have been the swaying of tree branches in the wind - but when he blinks again, he thinks he definitely spotted something moving.

It's foolish to get his hopes up but he does any way; or say rather that hope washes through him despite himself, lending him new strength. He scrambles to his feet, ignoring the way his toes have gone completely numb in his boots, and redoubles his efforts to limp forward. There - again. He sees it, a mere flicker. It doesn't look like red templars; those would be patrolling, moving slowly but confidently. It could be a friend. Even someone from the village would be a lifesaver right now, someone to point him in the right direction. And if he's really lucky, it'll be an Inquisition scout, preferably with a healing potion or eight.

He staggers onwards, feet slipping in the purchase of freshly fallen snow, injured arm hanging limply by his side, the other hanging onto the mountain side for support. Almost there. Almost. Almost. _Almost_.

He's very nearly at the grove of trees, when he spots movement again. He glances around to track it, but it's gone. And he realises, quite suddenly, that the wind's dropped, the pass is deathly silent, and _there is something behind him._

He can feel its gaze boring into him in the way the hairs at the back of his neck are standing. There's an instinctive, primordial fear that's crawling up from his gut, and all his senses are sharpening the best they can in the face of all his injuries. Keeping his movements as calm and nonthreatening as possible, he turns, slow as he can, his eyes darting around, seeking out every shadow.

It's standing right behind him, a massive black wolf that stands as tall as his waist, and its eyes glow a crazy shade of lyrium-red. As his gaze crosses the wolf's, a low growl rises from its throat, and Trevelyan knows that this is no ordinary creature.

There's no time for terror. He rips the glove off his left hand a split second before the wolf leaps, and the green glow of the Mark blazes out, rippling and angry. "Stay back!" he snarls, propping up his injured arm with his good one, holding the Mark out at the creature. The wolf hesitates, and he makes use of that flicker of indecision to advance on it. It drops its head a little, flattening its ears and backs up a step, still growling, but softer now. Snarling wordlessly back, he squares his shoulders to make himself look as big as possible, and takes another step forward. The wolf backs up another step.

Then its ears prick up as it glances at something over Trevelyan's shoulder.

He spins, but it's too late. He catches sight of a ripple of black fur before another wolf is on him, crashing into him hard enough send him sprawling backwards. By some impossible streak of luck, he manages to get his hand against its throat before it can rip his out. Gritting his teeth, he summons a fire spell - it's weak, without his staff to channel the swirling Fade energies, but it's enough to light a torch, and enough, in this case, to singe. The wolf springs backwards, yelping, and that gives him just enough time to scramble to his feet and draw his long knife, desperately looking around. 

Two of them, no, three. And who knows how many more skulking about, hidden by the shadows. He could use the power of the Mark, but that's his one, single shot. If he runs into any more of them - or, Maker forbid, if he runs into red templars, he'll be completely defenceless. 

One of the wolves howls. Several more answering calls go up, chilling him to the bone in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. The pack draws closer, pairs of eyes shining with that unnatural light. Trevelyan can hear his own breaths, short and barely controlled, laced with a fear that he's sure that the wolves can practically smell.

He raises the Mark again, trying to scare them into backing off, but these are no ordinary wolves. Corrupted and lyrium twisted; they're definitely out for blood. _His_ blood. He's never felt so keenly _alone_ as he has in that moment, injured and surrounded and utterly, hopelessly defenceless.

When they leap as one, he's not at all surprised.

He takes the first one in the throat with his knife, the second in the gut. A dagger is not his preferred weapon, but he still remembers the warm hands on his arm and wrist, adjusting his grip ( _no, not that way, you'll break your wrist. Relax, breathe deep. Move with it_ ), a voice, firm and friendly, correcting his stance, picking him up after he'd been knocked into the dust during a sparring session. A very long time ago, in another lifetime before magic had dropped into his life, his tutors had thought that his slight build and nimble footwork would make him a good dagger fighter. He tries not to think too hard about that life, about the might-have-beens that never happened; tries not to spend too long recalling lingering touch of summer warmth mingling with autumn cool, as he went trooping through the forest with his brothers, scouting for overripe berries. Would that path have led him to this - being torn apart by wolves, miles away from civilisation, or else perishing at the mercy of the elements? He'll never know.

He can't help but be grateful for the moves that come back to him now, backed up with his training as a Knight Enchanter. But he's bleeding and exhausted, and when he lands at the wrong angle, his bad ankle screams in protest. His focus shifts for a single second, and a wolf sinks fangs and claws into his shoulder. 

It's somehow worse than anything he's ever been hit by before, and considering that he's hunted rogue templars and mages and outlaws up and down Fereldan and Orlais, that's saying a lot. He's not sure if it's his agony-fueled imagination working over time, but he thinks he can actually feel flesh tearing. He thrusts his dagger blindly at the wolf and it dances back, but not without taking a chunk of him with it, and whatever clarity that the adrenaline's granted him vanishes like smoke, the world tilting crazily. In that instant, everything - _every single cut and bruise and hurt_ \- comes crashing in on him at the same time. 

He screams, clutching uselessly at the wound. His faltering feet stagger forward, seemingly of their own accord. He barely notices as he trips over one of the wolf corpses and collapses, but he has just enough coherent thought left to register that he's just about _completely screwed_. Fortunately, life is surprisingly simple when one is a thin thread away from certain death. He doesn't stop to wonder if he should save the Mark's power for later, tosses aside all calculations about encountering red templars or bandits or even an Archdemon. Everything is collapsing around him, folding down to the certainty that if he doesn't act now, he will never have to act again.

Clenching his teeth hard to hold back the whimpers that are trying to break free from his throat, he braces his broken arm, raises his hand, and sunders the Veil.

*

When it's over, when the vortex has dissipated and the screams of the wolves have faded into silence, he raises his head wearily. The light on his hand crackles weakly but is otherwise calm, its power exhausted. It's not the only thing that's exhausted, he thinks. He can't even summon the will to move any longer - it's as though he's been frozen to ground where he fell. Maybe it's all that blood - there's red everywhere, and some of it is probably his; he honestly can't tell any longer. Blood popsicle Inquisitor. The thought of it makes him want to giggle hysterically, except he's too tired.

Despite that, it's amazingly comfortable on the snow. The cold has seeped into the very fibre of his being, but his wounds have finally, _blessedly_ stopped hurting. Even his head, which has been low-grade ringing ever since he fell off that blasted mountain, seems peaceful and still at last. Some distant part of him knows that it's a bad sign - a _very_ bad, terrible, no-good sign - but he's exhausted, and he wants nothing more than to close his eyes, and he's sure it'll all be easier to deal with in the morning.

Someone's breathing very loudly near him, and he manages to flick his eyes over to where one last wolf is standing, its fur matted and caked with blood, glaring at him. At least, he thinks it's a glare. Hard to tell.

"Ah," he says. Sighs, really, and that's when he finally caves to the inevitable. "Just make it quick, will you?"

The wolf stalks forward, a rumble in its throat. Trevelyan keeps his eyes open, because he's always fancied that he would go down fighting, and if he's going to die, he might as well be self-indulgent. And since he's being self-indulgent, he thinks that he really should have joined one of those games of Wicked Grace that Varric keeps trying to organise, spent more time at the bar with the chargers … courted Dorian. Done a lot more than just court Dorian. He wonders -- no, it's too late for regret…

...except that he _is_ regretting it. He lost his family when he moved to the Circle; lost the few remaining friends he had when the Conclave exploded. He's kept himself apart since, focused on work, too busy (or so he keeps telling himself) to become involved in the affairs of anyone else. He's been running from one thing to another without even the time to stop and think, and is it any wonder that when he tries to think of the most important thing left to him, it's _Corypheus_ that appears?

He loves his inner circle, but at the end of the day, there's a difference between _allies and advisors_ and _friends_. Good companions, in a way, in the snatched moments of camaraderie, but there's always the invisible line, the wall that stands between. _You don't know what you are to them,_ Varric had told him once, and he supposes it's true, it's not something that he's spent time mulling over. They call him "Inquisitor" and "Your Worship", and he's never bothered to correct any of them. He's used to labels, after all. As a child, he was "neither the heir, nor the spare, not the spare's heir". Once his magic manifested, it was "the apprentice", followed by "just another mage", and there's never been a need for much more than that. And lately, well, everyone knows what he's called, lately. 

And so it comes to this: those around him might mourn the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, but he doesn't know how many of them will mourn Maxwell Trevelyan - if indeed there's even a Maxwell outside the labels and categories and symbolism that's surrounded him all his life. 

Too little, too late. The wolf is padding steadily closer, murder in its eyes, and he finally forces himself to face the truth that he's been running from ever since the behemoth sliced him open: that this is how it all ends - in darkness and pain and regret. 

_...for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it is empty._

*


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian is decidedly not panicking. Panicking implies uncontrolled actions and headless chickens and the decisive way that he's striding across this frozen wasteland is quite the antithesis of uncontrolled. He's motivated and purposive. That's a much better way of putting it. 

"It's not your fault, Sparkler," Varric murmurs from beside him. 

"No?" Dorian says, his tone icy - good match for the environment, by the by. "Good to know I have your vote, at least. I'll be sure to remember it when the rest of Skyhold lynches me." 

It's a poor jab, unworthy of him - no, very worthy of him, unworthy of a better man, like, say, the Inquisitor. Whom Dorian may just have gotten killed.

Varric means well. Of course he does. And maybe he even believes it, because no one becomes an expert storyteller without some degree of imagination. But the biting, unavoidable truth is that it's simple cause and effect at play here - one moment of carelessness, one moment stupidity, and the Inquisitor is paying the price. 

"He is not _dead_ ," Cassandra snaps, scowling as though she can hold back fate and destiny by sheer force of will. As much as Dorian wants to believe that she can, a larger, more pragmatic part of him is pointing out distinctly unhelpful facts like the amount of blood there was on the snow on the cliff's edge, the fact that the sun has set, and oh, the tiny little problem that the temperature is plunging way past freezing.

Brilliant. Let's leave the icy peaks of the mountains of Skyhold, to go camping in the icy peaks of the mountains of Emprise du Lion. Never let it be said that the Inquisition shies from hardship.

"I never said he was," he points out. He takes a plunging step into the snow that causes the monstrous stuff to swallow his leg up to the mid-calf. They're in the pass now, where - assuming they haven't gotten hopelessly turned around - the Inquisitor should have fallen. Unfortunately, the only thing that's greeted them is yet more snow. 

"You're thinking it," Cassandra snaps. 

"And that's a crime now, is it?" Dorian fires back. Debating keeps him warm, nice and toasty like buttered rum that's heated to perfection. Well, _almost_ as nice. More importantly, debating keeps him distracted, tearing his mind away from the scene of Trevelyan topping off the edge of a sheer drop. 

Dorian keeps wondering whether their eyes did meet in that split second before the Inquisitor vanished from sight, and whether it's guilt that's making him imagine the accusation in those eyes. 

No, blast it, there he goes again - _thinking_. Circling around those thoughts like a vulture circling its prey, except that he doesn't _want_ this particular carcass, thank you. He'd be happy to return the carcass so that they can all go home - emphasis on 'all', right there - and have some _real_ rum, or even some of that _acid_ that Bull calls 'alcohol'. Dorian's oesophagus still remembers the last time he drank it, and he doubts he'll ever forget that inferno going down his throat for as long as he lives. In fact, if he closes his eyes, it's almost like he's back there again, the Inquisitor and Bull both wearing looks of studied innocence as they raise their mugs in a toast. Trevelyan barely touching the mug to his lips, then nearly doubling over in laughter as Dorian chokes and tries very hard not to scream like Sera seeing a spirit. Trevelyan thumping his back, then switching to rubbing soothing circles as Dorian tries to remember what breathing is and how to do it. He would be lying if he said that his skin hadn't tingled at that contact, if he hadn't spent time extrapolating that far past the boundaries of platonic. But that has never been his relationship with the Inquisitor - theirs is the dance of the earth around the sun, forever moving, never touching. They trade jokes across the distance - some might even call it flirting, but the Inquisitor flirts with _everyone_ , and so does Dorian, really. The sun casts its light evenly on one and all.

Varric sighs, soldiering manfully - or dwarf-fully - on through the snowdrifts. Dorian considers apologising for his snippy words earlier, but it seems useless at this point. Besides, if Trevelyan is dead, everything is probably going to be slightly pointless from here on out. Others may shy away from considering worst case scenarios, but that's not a good survival tactic in Tevinter. Plan for the worst, then plan some more, as they say. And Dorian's certainly spent enough time speculating about how their fragile little alliance will fall apart without the Herald of Andraste at it's head to know that it's a certainty. Trevelyan may have acquired the Mark through a bad case of being at the wrong place at the right time, but there is no doubt that he has more than earned his title and won over the hearts of the entire Inquisition through his tireless efforts. Dorian can't think of any one with even half of Trevelyan's sheer, asinine stubbornness and … and _martyr-riffic_ tendencies, that will see him flinging himself into harm's way to save the smallest of nugs.

...Or to save some pariah from Tevinter, whose passing would leave little more than a murmur in the ranks of the Inquisition. They have mages aplenty here, after all.

The wind rises a little, and Dorian grumbles, not quite under his breath, just for the sake of filling up the hollow silence. Cassandra immediately shushes him. 

"Now _that_ is just rude," Dorian huffs.

"Hush!" Cassandra snaps again, and that's when Dorian hears it - the howling and baying of a wolf pack in the distance.

"Could it be--" Varric starts to say, when there's a flash of unearthly green, and a rift tears across the sky, just above a copse of trees. 

Dorian starts running.

*

Dorian's still not panicking--

No, Dorian is definitely panicking.

There's blood _everywhere_.

There's a dead wolf two inches away from Trevelyan, felled in the nick of time by Varric's crossbow bolt, as its teeth and claws closed on the barrier that Dorian had slammed into place just the sliver of a second before fangs snapped shut around tendons and flesh. There are more wolf carcasses scattered across the snow, telling a tale of a spectacular fight.

Then there's Trevelyan, lying stiller than stone where he's fallen. Dorian reaches him first, somehow outpacing even Cassandra, and his heart nearly stops when he sees the bluish tinge to Trevelyan's features and the dried blood that's staining the corner of his mouth. His terror recedes only marginally when he reaches the other mage's side to find that he's still breathing - those breaths are short and shallow, and the rattle at the end of them that doesn't bode well at all.

"Wake up, you lazy layabout," he says, reaching out to shake Trevelyan's shoulder, then stopping, hovering uncertainly. Trevelyan's shoulder is a shredded mess, and his back isn't much better, his left forearm is at an angle that no bone was ever meant to adopt, and Dorian doesn't even _know_ where to start. 

"Inquisitor!" Cassandra says as she rushes up, already uncorking a potion, then pausing as she realises that Trevelyan isn't in any state to drink it. Her eyes rake over his slumped form, then she's barking out orders - turn him over, _gently_ , wake him up, check for poison, make sure he isn't bleeding out-- _what_ is that chest wound?

Dorian doesn't know. Dorian's staring at the mangled _mess_ that is Trevelyan's front, and he's seen enough death to not lose the contents of his stomach, but this is a dear friend they're looking at, and Dorian's hands are shaking, shaking, shaking.

"Easy, Sparkler," Varric says, moving in because Dorian's frozen again (damn weather, he's just going to blame the weather), carefully examining the makeshift bandage that Trevelyan had wound around the worst of the wound. "It'll hold for now," he says, "He's not going to bleed to death from it, at least."

"No," Dorian says, "Not if the weather gets to him first." He peels off his coat, the one that Trevelyan had gifted him just the week before, warming it with a touch of a fire spell, before wrapping it around Trevelyan, while Cassandra continues trying to rouse him. 

"It's no good," she says, as Trevelyan remains unresponsive. "We'll have to carry him." Her gaze flickers over towards Dorian, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he knew _anything_ of healing magic. 

"Hate to say it, Seeker," Varric says, "but if we don't get him to wake up now, his chances of waking up are going to shrink by the minute."

Dorian grabs a lyrium potion from his belt, warming it with another flicker of flame. "Seeker, prop him up, would you?" It's such a far cry from his usual witty banter that it's almost painful, but his wits have clearly fled to warmer climes. 

"That's a lyrium potion, not a healing one," Cassandra points out unhelpfully, even as she and Varric manhandle the Inquisitor into something approximating an upright position. 

"Give the Seeker a prize!" he says. "Of course it's a lyrium potion. He's a _mage_. One sovereign says that he's run his mana reserves into the ground and right through the roots of this _blighted_ mountain, and maybe, just maybe, that's why he's completely exhausted and not waking up. Now if you _please_!"

Cassandra shoots him a slightly dirty look, which would be positively delightful on any other occasion - he does so love her dirty looks - but supports Trevelyan as Dorian tips the potion into his mouth, drop by painful drop, stroking his throat to coax him to swallow. 

Trevelyan's skin is icy cold.

He gets about halfway through the phial before Trevelyan's breath catches and he chokes. The Inquisitor's eyes flicker open as he doubles over - a move that clearly hurts, because he emits something that's halfway between a shriek and wheeze, a sound that tears knives into Dorian and which he never, ever wants to hear ever again. Then Trevelyan is collapsing against him, coughing hard, and Dorian's nose is assaulted by the smell of iron as blood splatters right across him.

"--sorry," Trevelyan gasps out, or at least that's what Dorian thinks he's saying, somewhere between the gasps for breaths and the heart-wrenching little whimpers of what is probably utter agony. Dorian could laugh or cry or just hit him for being so utterly _Trevelyan_ , for being the blasted, blessed, sainted Herald of Andraste, the only one who could _nearly die_ then apologise to someone for ruining his tunic.

"Inquisitor," Cassandra says, and her voice is tinged with relief but also with urgency, as she holds a healing potion to his lips. "You must drink."

Trevelyan actually hesitates, staring uncertainly as though he's not sure if he can manage drinking at all, and Dorian can't find it in himself to blame him. Not even when Trevelyan's gaze tracks aimlessly off into the distance and he slumps a moment later, his eyes sliding shut.

"Inquisitor!" Cassandra snaps again, in her best drillmaster voice, and Trevelyan startles awake, though his gaze remains troublingly unfocused. 

Somehow, they manage to get the healing potion and the rest of the lyrium potion into him, though the Inquisitor's face is pinched with pain, and Dorian feels like a torturer and the utter scum of the earth. It's a good thing he's had lots of practice being the dregs of civil society. He pushes the pity party aside to concentrate on sending up gusts of warm air around them, keeping the Inquisitor pressed close against him - for warmth, of course, nothing to do with the fact that he doesn't want to let go of him ever again. It isn't long before Trevelyan's stillness gives way to uncontrollable shivering, and Dorian's pretty sure that's a good sign, but he hates it anyway, hates the knowledge clawing at the back of his mind that their mighty leader wouldn't be a wreck in his arms if their resident Tevinter mage had just been more careful. 

"Right then," Varric says, "Best to get a move on."

Trevelyan winces, and Dorian is very glad that Cassandra is there, because he knows that he certainly wouldn't have the heart to bully him into getting to his feet when he's obviously more dead than alive. 

"Lean on Dorian and I," Cassandra orders, and Trevelyan obligingly tries to obey. He makes it all the way to one leg before he collapses entirely onto Dorian, nearly sending both of them to the ground. 

"I'm sorry, give me a moment - just a moment," he gasps out, and Dorian has to resist the urge to tighten his grip on him, fearful of doing even _more_ damage. He wonders if there's a single of inch of the Inquisitor that hasn't been mauled in some way. Seeing that he's fended off a behemoth and a bunch of red Templars, fallen off a mountain, _and_ encountered a pack of angry wolves, it doesn't seem very likely.

"Come now, Inquisitor," Dorian says, "My secret research into fiendish Tevinter time magic is supposed to be just that - secret." It gets a side-long look from Cassandra and a smirk from Varric, but it gets the ghost of a smile from Trevelyan, which is the most important thing. "Come on," he urges. "Dragging me all the way out here, then making me trek through miles of _snow_ to find you? You owe me a drink," he says. "Why haven't you made this weather illegal yet?"

The smile grows, just barely. "I'll be sure… to do that. First thing," Trevelyan murmurs, then with visible effort, forces himself to his feet. Dorian staggers. Trevelyan's not exactly a small man, and Dorian is, in a word, _lithe_. Cassandra's probably supporting more of the Inquisitor's weight than he is at this point, and Dorian would offer to trade off with Varric if only they could find a pair of stilts for the dwarf.

"I hate to say it, but we _really_ need to get going," Varric calls out. "Unless you'd like to say hello to even more of our red Templar friends."

Cassandra bites back what sounds suspiciously like a curse. Dorian doesn't bother to bite it back at all. True enough, he can see the glint of shiny armour down the pass, and from the look of it, that shiny armour is making due haste towards them.

Fortunately, they're also in a _pass_. Raising a hand, Dorian pulls on the energies of the Fade just _so_ \--

A massive wall of fire leaps up, blocking off the entire pass, and he manages to catch the leader with it too, judging by the sudden screams that echo through to them. 

"Nicely done," Varric says, then sends a hail of crossbow bolts through the flames to dissuade the more enthusiastic pursuers. 

Perhaps it's wrong of him to feel smug about the thought of red Templars frying in their armour in the middle of winter, but Trevelyan is a deadweight against him, his breath stuttering with every step, and Dorian can't find it in himself to feel the slightest sliver of charity towards the enemy. 

*


	4. Chapter 4

In the hubbub of the Inquisition camp, Dorian finds a bed roll that's as close to the fire as it can manage without actually being aflame, and all but collapses bonelessly into it.

In the next tent, the healers are swarming around Trevelyan, weaving healing magic and expending entire supplies of elfroot to get their Inquisitor back on his feet. Dorian had lingered initially, but took the hint after the third one tripped over him and gave him a death glare, and bid a quiet retreat. He wants to be there when Trevelyan wakes up again, wants to be there, period, but he knows when he's not wanted.

Someone drops a blanket over his shoulders, and he nearly jumps out of his skin before melting into its warmth. When he glances up, he finds Cassandra there, looking curiously small without all that heavy plate mail, exhausted and grimy as Dorian feels.

"How is--" Dorian starts to ask, and Cassandra shakes her head, sighing as she settles on a camp stool. "Right," Dorian says. "The waiting game, then?"

"The waiting game," Cassandra echoes, sounding a bit hollow. Now that all the running and rescuing is done, the adrenaline has crashed and burned, leaving behind the ache of bruises both physical and emotional. 

Dorian can feel exhaustion tugging at him, can feel the temptation to sleep creeping up like a desire demon, but he can't, not while Trevelyan hovers uncertainly between life and death. He jams the palms of his hands into his eyes instead, as though that can ward off the need for rest. Naturally, it does exactly nothing. 

He sighs. "Blighted weather."

For once, Cassandra doesn't tell him to deal with it. Her sigh echoes quietly after his, and she actually nods in agreement. "Still, even storms pass," she says, and both of them know that they're not talking about the weather at all. Dorian waves his fingers, coaxing the fire to life as it starts to burn down a little, and Cassandra moves to gather more wood, tossing it on the blaze. It crackles and pops, and Dorian wonders, for a moment, whether they've all been caught in a bubble of time magic, because everything feels like it's _crawling_.

"Do you think--" Dorian starts to say, just because the silence is getting awkward and he's never been one for silence ( _all those silences and disapproving glances from his parents, the way the mansion, obviously built to house many, echoes in its loneliness_ ), but his question dies on his tongue as a scream echoes across the camp, dashing the brittle quiet into a million unsalvagable shards. 

He's on his feet in an instant, charging across the snow towards the healers' tent, Cassandra so hard on his heels that she might well be his shadow. He doesn't even know how he recognised that voice as Trevelyan's, torn and twisted as it is, but his heart moves first and conscious thought is only a distant second. 

"What's wrong?" he demands, as he bursts into the tent. His eyes take in a scene of disaster - one healer is on the ground, unconscious, the rest are backed up against the far edges of the tent, and Trevelyan ... Trevelyan is curled up on himself, eyes open but unseeing, fresh blood leaking onto the sheets and the song, the _song_ \--

Dorian claps his hands over his ears as it shrieks into his mind; twisted and howling and cackling. It's no use, he can't block it out, and it mocks him, a million voices raking claws down his spine.

Cassandra catches him as he staggers and nearly drops to the floor. "Focus!" she yells at him, or he thinks she yells; it's a bit hard to tell when his head is ringing with unearthly choruses which was drowning everything else. Trying to think is like trying to swim for the surface with weights tied to one's feet. He thrashes, floundering, only succeeding in dragging himself down.

A sharp crack across his jaw bring pain blossoming through his entire head. It cuts through the chaos, lending him enough clarity to stare at Cassandra in shock and horror and blurt out a "You struck me? Across the face? Across _this_ face?"

Cassandra shoots him a glare. "And I will hit it again if I have to. What happened?" Her eyes dart around the tent, trying to discern what could have caused this, before moving to touch Trevelyan's shoulder.

The reaction is instantaneous. He shrieks, lashing out at her with something that can't even be called a spell. It's just raw magic, flung instinctively and violently, and Dorian barely has the time to throw up a barrier. Energy hits energy, and for a moment, the air is filled with the crackling hum of power, before the Inquisitor's whatever-it-is dissipates into nothing. In the silence that falls, Dorian can hear Trevelyan _whimpering_.

And the song. That damned song, still singing in the back of his mind.

"Red lyrium," a grave voice says from the entrance of the tent, and Dorian glances around to see Varric standing there, his face expressionless, but his eyes are haunted. "That behemoth that attacked him - it got him clean across the chest. A shard or two, broken off, stuck in the wound…"

"We get it out," Cassandra says, in that tone of hers that brooks no argument. Dorian glances over at her just at the right moment to catch the way her mask of cool competence fractures. It's barely a moment, just a flicker in the way fear, horror and _doubt_ races through her eyes, but this is _Cassandra_ , who stands on the front line and never falters, never stumbles, and never, ever shows fear. Dorian swallows hard and squeezes her shoulder. She doesn't shrug him off.

"The sooner the better," Varric says, but his gaze tracks towards the healers. None of them have moved an inch - they're still backed against the far ends of the tent, staring at Trevelyan with hopelessness and not a little fear in their eyes. Dorian can see why - magic is sparkling at the Inquisitor's fingertips, the Mark blazing erratically in response. He's not unconscious, but he's not aware, trapped in a netherworld where he cannot distinguish friend from foe. As they watch, Trevelyan groans in pain and claws at the chest wound, fingers wracking over the edges, tearing at the flimsy bandages with increasing urgency. Blood blossoms against the cloth, leaks over and starts spilling onto his fingers, and it's the sight of that that drives Dorian to action. 

"Right," he says, striding over to Trevelyan's side as he jabs fingers at the healers. "You, get me some hot water. _Boiling_ , mind you. Toss some elfroot in - crush the leaves first. You, bandages, needles and thread. Someone get your unconscious friend out of the tent and bring him around. Oh, and someone get me a bottle of brandy."

The healers hesitate, staring wide-eyed at the Tevinter mage. Dorian can practically _see_ the words 'blood magic' reflected in their glassy gazes, and he wants to bury his face in his hands, because this is just absurd. "Mortalitasi, yes?" he says, wondering why he's wasting his breath with explanations. "It means I need to know _something_ of anatomy. Honestly, if I wanted the Inquisitor dead, don't you think I would have done it a long time ago?" 

"Do as he says," Cassandra snaps, coming unexpectedly to his rescue, and he thinks that he could kiss her, if there was any chance of retaining his jaw afterward. The healers jump to that, scrambling over themselves to execute his orders - _orders_ now, he's going to turn into a Magister if he doesn't watch himself. Varric says something about knowing where to get the brandy and takes off at a fast jog. 

"Well, then," Dorian says, taking a deep breath to keep up the show of confidence that's all that stands between him and absolute, gibbering hysterics. 

"What do you need me to do?" Cassandra asks, placing a steadying hand on his elbow, and he wonders if she's more perceptive than she appears sometimes, or whether he's shaking outwardly as much as he is inwardly. Can he blame the shaking on the cold too? Worth a shot, anyway.

"You told me once that you can control a mage's magic. If you could keep him from roasting both of us, that would be superb," Dorian says, washing his hands in one of the basins in the tent. "Oh and-- no, _don't_ do that--" he catches sight of Trevelyan tearing at the wound again, and lunges forward to grab the Inquisitor's wrist, even as Cassandra shouts a warning.

Too late. His fingers close around Trevelyan's hand, and the Inquisitor's furious gaze snaps towards him, magic already flaring around them. Cassandra's warning shout is a very distant shout in Dorian's ears as he recognises his mistake, and he braces himself for the impact, knowing that he'll never get a barrier up in time.

Electricity snaps from Trevelyan's fingers, then, impossibly, blasts _past_ Dorian, slamming into the ground just inches behind him. 

Dorian freezes, before he realises that Trevelyan is looking at him. Straight at him, his eyes bloodshot and half-lidded, but with the blessed light of sanity in them. "Hello," Dorian ventures to say, while his nerves scream and wail about the near miss. Or… not a miss. A miss implies something accidental. Given how close he is to the other mage right now, there was no way that Trevelyan could have missed, unless it was by design.

"Dorian," the Inquisitor whispers, and is that guilt flooding his expression? No, no, no, Dorian isn't going to allow it.

"The very one," he says. "Right in the flesh. Did you miss me? And really, Inquisitor, didn't your mother ever tell you not to pick at wounds?"

"It's…" Trevelyan squeezes his eyes shut, takes a shuddering breath, shaking so hard that it's like he's going to rattle himself into little pieces. "It's inside, it's burning, you have to… have to…" 

Somewhere behind him, someone or several someones burst into the tent, along with the rattle of equipment, and Dorian catches the scent of elfroot. He ignores the commotion, bending closer so that he can catch the fragmented words that fall from Trevelyan's lips like leaves off a dying tree. 

"...if you can't… if it's growing…" 

"I'm offended by your lack of faith in me, Inquisitor," Dorian says, "We'll get those shards out and you'll be up and hunting nugs again in no time."

"...saw what happened," Trevelyan gasps out. "In that future - the red lyrium - you have to … _promise_ me, Dorian, you won't let it--"

Dorian knows what he's asking, and for a moment he's so furious that he wants to hit something, except that it's a rather unproductive way of venting his anger, given that the only thing within easy hitting range is Trevelyan himself. "No," he growls, "I won't. I won't promise and I certainly won't kill you, but happily, and you'll like this part - there isn't any need for that, because we _are going to heal you_."

Trevelyan looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and Dorian's stomach flip-flops in a way that has nothing to do with anger or fear. No, it's a different emotion entirely, one that's been lurking in the far corners of his mind ever since he first clapped eyes on Trevelyan, all the way in Redcliffe, one that he's been systematically forcing away, because he's seen the way that road ends, and here's a hint: it never ends well.

But the heart is such a foolish, fickle thing, and Dorian's never really had a lot of control over his, as evidenced by the fact that it's acting completely against his better judgment, here in the worst of all possible places, at the worst of all possible times. 

"Who else is going to make this weather illegal?" he chokes out, There's something in Trevelyan's gaze, something that he can't read ( _or won't, because he's still running from this, fast as he can_ ), and Dorian's blighted, _traitorous_ mind is very unhelpfully pointing out that Trevelyan, in the midst of intense, overwhelming agony, after knocking a healer out and nearly frying Cassandra, managed to pull his punches for one particular Tevinter mage.

Can it be - one part of his mind wonders, but no, it can't be. Surely it can't be. 

"Alright, Dorian," Trevelyan says, visibly rallying whatever fading reserves of strength he has left, "I leave it in your good hands."

The Inquisitor smiles, and it feels like a knife right through Dorian's heart. Falling in love, he thinks, should never be this painful. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters at a shot! Unfortunately, chapter 4 is the last chapter that I had written, so the next update is going to take a while (we're probably looking at a couple of weeks)? (Look at me, trying out this new "committing to deadlines in an attempt to make sure regular updates happen" thing. Hey, it works for work...) Apologies in advance for the wait, and thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Once again, can I just say thank you all of you for the amazing, overwhelming amount of love you've given this fic?


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